


The Long Way Around

by Vagrant_Blvrd



Series: Not A Good Man (But You Got Conviction) [5]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Batman AU, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Red Arrow!Barbara, Red Hood!Trevor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-26 13:30:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19006774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vagrant_Blvrd/pseuds/Vagrant_Blvrd
Summary: Ryan goes out of town and all his rules about who’s allowed to play in his little sandbox go right out the window.





	The Long Way Around

It starts with a familiar face.

Pretty blue eyes and luscious blonde locks to die for. 

Flirty little smile and a sultry, “Hello, Trevor,” and “Haven’t seen you in ages,” and _“You son of a bitch,”_ followed by a right hook that snaps his head back, ring-a-ding-ding.

And: 

“You deserved that for what you put everyone through, you asshole.”

Trevor blinks up at her from his spot on the ground, ears ringing and Barbara scowling down at him, hand outstretched to help him back up. (Partners in crime once upon a time as the saying goes, and one hell of a headache for everyone else.)

She’s not wrong. (A little bit yes, though, but she’s never been part of the family squabble.)

Always was a strange girl, Barbara.

Played the part of rich socialite to a tee. Got the press fawning over her and smoothing over any ruffled feathers Sorola might leave behind.

Vicious right hook (her left wasn’t too shabby either) and one hell of a shot with that bow of hers. (Always threw the bad guys for a loop when she pulled the damn thing out, Speedy to Sorola’s Green Arrow and the trickiest of trick arrows to complement the boring regular ones.)

“You always know how to treat a guy,” Trevor says, accepts her offer of help and climbs to his feet, jaw aching.

Barbara smiles at him, disdain to it as she takes in his current abode.

Quaint, some might call it. Rustic is another good word. (Shitty, though, that’s the one Trevor’s looking for.)

Leaky ceilings and creaky floors. Windows that rattle when the wind picks up and this cough-wheeze from the refrigerator that came with the place. Shabby furniture and the thinnest walls and nosy neighbors.

“Nice place,” Barbara says, politely doesn’t make a face when something in the walls gnaws away at rotting wood. “Very...you.”

Well if that isn’t a back-handed compliment.

Trevor mimics her smile and moseys on over to the refrigerator and pulls out an ice pack. Ignores the raised eyebrow from Barbara – she knows she hits hard – and leans against the counter to watch her.

Looks prim and proper until you take a closer look, and even then she’s a damn fine actor. Pretty face that too many people underestimate, in costume and out. (As devastating fighting crime as she in in the board room.)

“To what do I owe the honor of your presence?” 

Ryan’s got this policy, you see. Rules he’s set up that most – most – of the caped crowd abides by. No metas in Gotham, except for the ones who live here, but _shh_ about them. (Surprise, surprise, Ryan’s a hypocrite.)

The Arrows aren’t metas, though, and boy do they love using those little loopholes to rile Ryan up something fierce. (Not that it matters this time around. Ryan’s off with the Justice League tackling some major threat or another, yaddah, yaddah, yaddah.)

Barbara makes a face, reaches over to flick on the lights.

“I need your help,” she says, like just saying the words causes her pain.

(Trevor and Barbara and all the trouble they used to get into way back when and the trouble he causes _now_. Bit of a disconnect between the two, and Trevor’s not doing much to help.)

Trevor lowers the ice pack, feels a smile coming on.

“Do you now,” Trevor muses. “How interesting.”

(Things were getting boring without Ryan around to harass, heckle, and Barbara always found the best kind of trouble.)

========

There’s an asshole.

Started out in Star City peddling weapons and other fun things. Stirring up trouble and giving the Arrows a run for their money – which, a _lot_ because Arrows - and now he’s in Gotham somewhere doing much the same.

The Bats and the Birds don’t know about him yet, which is fine because Barbara wants to be the one to nail his balls to the wall - 

“Colorfully put as always.”

\- and she’s been meaning to give Trevor a piece of her mind (fist to the face) for the shit he pulled since he’s been back.

Also, she’s calling in one of those favors he owes her.

Just needs some info, a lead to follow. Anything to help her track the asshole down, let him know she’s not about to let him slip out of her grasp.

The others would help, but they’re also a little too...Battish for what Barbara’s doing right now. Not quite toeing the line between goody-good and Trevor’s kind of problematic, but this asshole is pushing her far to close to it for anyone’s peace of mind.

So.

There’s a place Trevor knows where someone’s always good for news about the asshole Barbara’s looking for.

He flashes her a little grin – not quite right anymore, but it gets the job done most days.

“Trust me, I know what I’m doing,” he says, and gives her directions to the wrong side of the tracks. (Pretty much everywhere, here in Gotham.)

She gives him a skeptical look as he tells her to park just the other side of the proverbial tracks – nice car like the one she’s driving? Yeah. Not going to want to sully it taking it anywhere near there. He tips an imaginary hat to her as he hops out of their car and strolls on into (one of) the bad parts of town with a promise to be back soon. (She’s got a memorable face, Barbara, and the people Trevor needs to talk to will know she’s not one of theirs.)

Takes a nice big breath as he walks along, lets it sink in as he slips into character. Leans against a wall for a moment and tucks a pebble down into his shoe because it’s been a long day and his feet are killing him, brings out a limp, don’t you know. Stands up and a few feet later he slaps on a beanie because he’s been working down at the docks and his ears get cold - 

_” - toque! It’s a toque! How many times do I have to tell you, Collins?”_ , the laugh that always came with that blinding smile, hands reaching out to tug it down over his eyes before she was dancing out of reach again.

Trevor stumbles over nothing, swearing under his breath as he shakes it off and steps back into the present. 

Leaves his old ghosts behind because he doesn’t have time for them now, and Barbara coming back into his life like this is a problem. Brings up memories of _Before_ when Trevor had a better grasp on sanity and anger wasn’t so lose to the surface for him. (Oh, he’s a goddamned mess, isn’t he.)

Tucks his hands into the pockets of his jacket as he glances around.

Rundown, all the renovations and beautification projects HI is funding to make Gotham a better place, a city they can take pride in again, haven’t quite reached this far yet. No one to smooth out the cracked asphalt and patch up crumbling sidewalks. Throw a little paint on the buildings around here and replace a few lightbulbs. Plant some trees, toss in some flowers, maybe a shrub. 

Window dressings for a deeper problem, and Trevor has to consciously uncurl his hands, shake out the anger and leave that behind for the moment as well because they don’t have a place for the dockworker he’s playing at being.

He stops off at an old pool hall turned seedy dive bar (not much of a switch, when it comes down to it) and good old Paulie at the bar is just the sort to run his mouth if you ply him with enough alcohol.

“Oh, _that_ guy,” Paulie says, family roots from all the way up north going back generations. 

Fishermen living on a cramped little boat for months on end to make a living and television crews begging to have them on for some show or another the public can’t get enough of.

Manufactured drama and good old drunken brawls. Old feuds and a tiff or two. Touch of family bullshit dragged into the light of day to boost ratings. Saucy innuendo tossed in here and there when viewership dips too low. And people loved Paulie when he was on, they did, but he got a little wild didn’t he, and the producers got tired of making excuses for him when his bail got set higher and higher and now he’s running around Gotham and stirring up all kinds of new trouble.

Trevor grins at Paulie and buys him a round, and then another and another. Drops a name or two, a couple of stories about the assholes in Paulie’s hometown (they’ve done this dance before, and Trevor always does his homework) and then it’s just like they’ve known each other since they were kids. No problem for Paulie to let a few things slip he shouldn’t when they’ve got that kind of history.

“Yeah?” Trevor says, waves Sharon (God love name-tags) over for another round of drinks and toasts to Paulie’s favorite team making a bid for the playoffs, poor bastards. Up against a _real_ team and does Paulie really think they stand a chance after the season they’ve had?

“Fuck you!” Paulie crows, grin his voice and too fucking drunk for his own good and Trevor laughs, throws an arm around Paulie’s shoulders and raises his drink.

“Fuck me!” he echoes, and the two of them laugh like it’s an old joke between them.

“Yeah, yeah,” Paulie says, tugs Trevor closer because this is shit no one else needs to hear. Just a couple of friends and some good old fashioned bitching. 

Gives Trevor the information he came looking for and something of a bonus besides. 

Tells him the asshole is planning to set up shop over in Bludhaven soon. As bad as Gotham is, Bludhaven is worse, and an asshole like him stands to make a killing there. (Assuming he doesn’t make a misstep with the criminal element there first.)

Has some gofer working for him there running around smoothing things over before he steps foot in the city. 

“I mean, come the fuck on, who the fuck wears purple and orange like that?”

Paulie looks disgusted, horrified, at the state of criminals these days. Plenty of flair to them, sure, but no kind of fashion sense at all like there used to be back in his day. 

Trevor laughs so hard he spills his beer all over Paulie and stumbles over himself to apologize. Buys him another drink to make up for it and Paulie’s too far gone to notice when Trevor slips away not too long after that. 

Ruminates on the Bats and the Birds and a few of their choice undercover identities they take an odd sort of liking to, go back to again and again.

Ryan’s favorite police detective with an accent Ryan always has a hard time of shaking after he slips into character. Jeremy’s own police detective when one just won’t do and the two of them certifiable menaces when working together.

Trevor’s got a costume trunk of his own. All these people whose identities he inhabits through training and long practice tucked in the back of his head ready to be called upon on a moment’s notice. (Flocks and feathers and dank little caves under a sprawling manor.)

He’s pulled back to the here and now when someone yells, leans out their window to shout at their neighbor about the racket they’re making. Music on too loud and goddammit, some of them work the early shift.

Trevor hunches down into his coat as he passes by. Keeps the slouch and slight limp going strong until he ducks down an alley and sheds it all like water in a matter of strides. Roots around in his shoe as he crouches down to retie the laces and flicks the rock into a convenient pothole, _good riddance_ and then he’s walking again. 

Tugs the beanie ( _toque_ ) off and into his pocket, another step and he slips his jacket off because the brisk walk is warming him up. Lock of hair in his eyes which might mean it’s time for a haircut, so he reaches up to straighten it.

By the time he hits the end of the alley and swings a right to where a sweet little sports car parked is parked across the way he doesn’t look a thing like Paulie’s old friend from back home. (Maybe around the face, but don’t you know? They say everyone’s got a doppelganger out there, hahaha.)

Not a lot of foot traffic this part of town at this hour, and all the good little Birds (and a Bat or two) should be winging their way home to roost for the night soon.

“Well?” Barbara asks when Trevor hops in, manicured nails tap, tap, tapping out a beat on the fine leather of the steering wheel. Not very discreet, this car she’s driving, but that’s an Arrow for you. “What did you find out?”

Trevor glances at her, feels his lips twitch up into a smile because boy does he have news for her.

========

Barbara heads off to Bludhaven - “Thanks, but I can handle it from here, bird-boy,” - and Trevor sees her off with this little half-smile. 

Doesn’t bother to correct her, knows she did it on purpose. (Clever one, that Barbara. Knows him a little too well even now.)

It’s tempting to follow along behind her given the asshole she’s chasing after, but, well.

She’d kick his ass if she knew, and Bludhaven is Jeremy’s city. Trevor’s not ready to go traipsing about there with the baggage he’s still unpacking. Lot of anger left to him, still.

No, better he keeps out of it. Her fight to finish, and besides, there are plenty of faces for him to pound here in Gotham, work out his aggression the old-fashioned way.

A little bird he can heckle the hell out of and know he’ll get the same back because Alfredo is still a feisty one. Gives Trevor grief the way the others can’t just yet, too worried about pushing the wrong buttons. 

Eggshells and the way they tiptoe around them, and God does Trevor hate how careful, _considerate_ they are with him. (Worried looks and hushed conversation like he doesn’t know. Kicks up the anger, frustration all over again and it’s a vicious, vicious cycle with them. Exhausting, too.)

It’s late though, or early, given how you look at it and he’s had a busy night and feels it, exhaustion dragging at his bones.

Sheds the pieces of armor – literal and figurative – the Red Hood wears to fight the good (and not so good) fight on the streets of Gotham again and again and again. Washes his face, brushes his teeth, all the things one does, neat little routine. This and this and this, hoping it will lead to a restful night and sweet dreams, and ends up staring at the ceiling of his bedroom like someone waiting for the punchline to a bad joke like every other night before.

Sleep doesn’t come as easily to him as it once did. All those nightmares of his. Nasty things full of the toxic green of the pit and sensation of drowning and pain. Rewind a little further back and a madman’s laughter echoing in his ears and the fact that Trevor can never tell if it’s his own or the Joker’s, and try not to remember, but it never works.

Trevor laughs, dark and bitter tasting because this is his life now. Broken, jagged pieces he’s trying to fit back together best he can and all these little obstacles, setbacks littering his path. (Fun, fun times.)

A sigh, exhale of breath and he finds himself looking at the moon outside his window. 

Cold and distant, uncaring about puny human problems.

Oddly reassuring, that, helps to put things in perspective. (Or maybe it’s just the fact it’ll still be there long after said puny human problems stop mattering. One or the other.)

“Goodnight moon,” he says, “see you again tomorrow.”

And the night after than and so on and so on, because that’s the way these things go, no way out but through, as it goes, and he’s always been the stubborn sort.


End file.
